


gamble

by curtailed



Series: power couple fics [2]
Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Dirty Dancing, Emotional Hurt, Grinding, Human Trafficking, M/M, Mission Fic, Power Couple, Riding, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, but a messed-up kind, disguises, nightclubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtailed/pseuds/curtailed
Summary: It's always a gamble. Sometimes Slade doesn't even answer the door, and Dick just stands outside that apartment, still soaking from the freezing rain, and wonders when - where -why- he's fallen so deep into this grave.And sometimes Slade answers the door.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: power couple fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022971
Comments: 32
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly in comic canon. Dick's tenure as Robin comes from TT03 (specifically, the whole Apprentice shebang).

Dick loses a bet with himself. It's not even two nights when he's walking across the boulevard, and the rain glistens over the cars and curb like a sheen of beaten silver. When he breathes out, trembling slightly, his breath comes out in a thin white wisp. The moonlight saturates the whole area with a shimmering, liminal haze.

_4207 Rockwater Blvd. Floor Four. Door Seven._

The rain never stops. The stairs are creaky, old, cold water dripping from the pipes; Dick takes the stairs two steps at a time, never pausing for breath. If he stops to think, rationale will catch up to him. Logic. Reasoning. Self-preservation.

He doesn't have the strength to face those.

 _Seven doors._ Behind each could be a family, or a criminal, or a child. For all of his skills, he can never look through an inch of wood. He hears voices pitching up and down, a faint whistle of a tea kettle rattling on the stove, and even the white static of a deadened television. He keeps moving. _Seven doors._

Door Seven looms ahead, as quotidian and plain as all of the others.

It's always a gamble. Sometimes Slade doesn't even answer the door, and Dick just stands outside that apartment, still soaking from the freezing rain, and wonders when - where - _why_ \- he's fallen so deep into this grave.

And sometimes Slade answers the door.

Dick doesn't hesitate. His heart's in his throat and his stomach clenches with nervousness, but it's instinct that guides his knuckles to the door. Two knocks in quick succession, then another two, and then three slow ones. The sound ricochets all over the empty corridor. It's down to a coin toss now. Heads, and he walks away, back into the rain. He'll retreat to the paths he knows, the people he trusts, the company he cares for. It's a safer probability. It's a safer choice than this route.

Tails, and the door opens.

Slade's already in disguise. It's not a suit, for once, none of those three-pieces or Armanis that would fit him right at home at one of Bruce's galas. It's just a jacket, shirt, and slacks, not giving away much, and only the eyepatch (and maybe the unnaturally white hair) gives away anything about him at all. 

"You're drenched."

Dick swallows, wondering how his own disguise holds up. It's a mouldy hoodie and black jeans hugging over his suit, and he feels grimy next to Slade's hand-picked cleanliness. The rest of the apartment matches the other man's attire: plain, maybe even simple, but very utilitarian. For a place so run-down, it's well-kept and tidy.

Dick pulls out the satchel from his hoodie's pocket. Inside is stuffed around a dozen bundles of cash, each bill clean off the print. It's probably only pennies compared to Slade's usual charge, but Dick has another form of currency in much more abundance. He drops the satchel on the couch under Slade's watchful eye.

The table is cleared of guns, for once. Dick peruses one last time through the files, ingraining each blurred photo and smudged silhouette into his brain. It's not so much the exact features of the face he memorizes than the posture, the body language, the physique. Those are harder to change. Texture of hair; how they sit, or stand, favoring one leg over the other. Two men and one woman.

He slowly puts the file down.

.

.

.

They take Slade's car.

Slade, to his credit, doesn't ask how Dick managed to get to his apartment. The motorcycle draws too much attention sometimes, and so it's stashed under some arbitrary fire escape, locked and camouflaged so that no one drives off with it. He doesn't explain it to Slade, either, not when the cold of the fog steams up the windows. The rain pelts hard on the glass, and the wipers leave streaks of dripping silver behind.

They don't talk. Instead, Dick focuses on the smell of the interior -- worn, beaten leather, so it's an older automobile -- and there's another smell as well. He doesn't dare to breathe in deeply for any hint of salt or sweat or the smell that permeates Slade to the bone. No matter how much cologne or oil Slade sometimes scents his skin with, it can never cover the smell of cold, ruthless metal -- the smell of blood and murder.

Dick hates himself for loving it.

A slight flush has crept up his neck by the time the nightclub comes into view. The rain has lessened infinitesimally, drops glistening along the tyres of the cycle as Slade slows down the drive. Even through the rain he can see the cut of purple and red lights inside, glancing off of chrome panels like polished mirrors. He can hear the thrum of the music as well, a deep, rolling bass that shudders through the cracks of the concrete. Besides the club, the surrounding buildings are stumpy and unlit, a set of concrete blocks passively stacked next to each other. It's a strange, unsettling mix of ecstasy and mirthlessness that filters in the night, all the more compounded by the aura of mist. Slade parks the car a few buildings down, the sedan inconspicuous amongst a stack of pilfered trash bins.

"It's going to be stolen soon," Dick points out.

"That's why I bought such a crappy version." Even in the brief walk, the rain drenches him again, cold puddles splashing into his boots. Thunder crackles above, lightning flashing briefly in the far distance where the sun would later rise. The brilliant burst of light flashes up the clouds like each wisp has been dipped in glittering paint. Slade falls into step besides Dick, a single hand splayed against his shoulderblades. A shiver goes through Dick, but he ignores it.

The bouncers nod them in when they show their ID -- even Slade, with all his stoicism, can't help but bite back a laugh at Dick's identity. "Ric Anders," he states as they enter the building. Dick scowls at him.

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Maybe _any other name_ under the sky could work." He says something else, but it's drowned out by a sudden rush of synth swelling from the speakers. Violet and magenta blaze around the club in disorienting, dizzying blurs, and Dick swears the ground rocks under his feet for a second. The smell of sweet alcohol unfurls in the air. Bodies are moving everywhere, rolling, thrusting, screams and gasps and a whole cacophony of elation. 

He's not worried about his identity. People who come here don't look for Dick Grayson, and people like Dick Grayson don't come to places like these. He's supposed to be all regaled and prim at the gala, floating his way through the mass with an easy affability, not prowling around the club like a spreading stain on wallpaper. People won't remember his face. Like the targets, it's his posture and body language that make him blend in. Loose, easy limbs. Relaxed. Ready to throw thought to the wind.

Then again, he's already started on this path ago, from the moment he had first showed up on Slade's doorstep.

"Dance with me."

There are two phases for the night. The first is the recon, the camouflage and preparation, even as he and Slade merge into the throng. It's the phase he's practiced with every hero so thoroughly, and it's become rote by now -- the thrill, the adrenaline; it flickers along in his veins. He doesn't have the passionate edge that Jason has, or the tampered collective one of Bruce, but it's still there. It makes him smile, very slightly.

"This is ridiculous," Slade mutters as Dick encircles his waist from behind. 

"What is?"

"Your attempts at disguise." Still, Slade doesn't stop him as Dick lets his hands slip under the other man's shirt, trying not to salivate at the feeling of firm, warm muscle under his palms. It's the damn same with every single partner he has -- the more they can throw him around, the more they can break him without blinking, the more exhilarating it becomes. And with someone of Slade's morals, the dissonance only sharpens his desperation. He pushes his hands higher, letting it brush the pecs, grazing along the sternum --

"Three o'clock," Slade murmurs.

Dick doesn't turn his head. Instead, he slinks around to Slade's front, his heart going a mile a minute. He stretches up and loops his arms around the other man's neck, adjusting their position slightly so that he has a clear view of the bar. 

_There._

Someone on stage releases some plume of blue smoke, and it settles onto the bar counter in thick, rolling fumes. The target is a thin man, hair thinning towards the top, but Dick recognizes the way he sits -- relaxed on the elbow, three fingers curled delicately around the stem of the glass -- and he watches him lean over to chat with the bartender. 

"He's got backup," Dick whispers in Slade's ear, even as Slade's hands drift down to his hips. The music is slower but no less intense, and Dick feels that same pulse in their movements -- slow, measured, with each brush of skin making his throat dry. This time he indulges himself in breathing in deeply, letting the smell of salt and metal pour into his lungs. It makes his chest flutter. "Two guards. They've got guns concealed under their belt."

"I can take care of it."

" _No,_ " he snaps. "You promised me."

Slade lowers his head so that his mouth touches Dick's lightly. "I did."

_Payment._

Dick bites his lip, steeling himself, and lets Slade have his way.

There's another phase for the night. It's one he _definitely_ doesn't practice for the family, and in fact, doesn't really do at all -- not until now. Not until with Slade. It starts slowly, with Dick stepping closer to Slade, and the cold iciness of the rain can't stop Dick from feeling the warmth emanating from his frame. He puts on his public mask, one he knows Slade will see through like glass, and smiles up at him.

"Happy?"

Slade hums. "Try harder."

Dick keeps an eye on the man at the bar. Sooner or later his compatriots will show up, and the former is considerably a better option. Especially when Slade's hands wander down to his ass, and _squeeze._

Dick's face burns with embarrassment. He turns around, turns until his ass is flush with Slade's hips. Slowly, so slowly, he grinds against the other man's crotch, heat pooling in his stomach and groin even as Slade's hands wander further down, squeezing at the front of his thighs, dragging him closer. A soft moan breaks out, lost to the music, and Slade purposely slots his knee between his thighs. Dick is aware that he's practically humping against Slade's leg, in slow, hot motions that make his face flare. Slade's hands fasten on his hips, and he rubs himself against Dick's backside. Another moan escapes, loud and breathy, from his parted lips.

"Company," Slade says in his ear, before he drags his teeth down the side of Dick's throat. 

There's nothing on Earth that can stop Dick from choking out a sound, and he _feels_ Slade laugh, one that settles deep and warm onto his bones, like he's sinking into an ocean. It's heady, like a potent drug, and his hands tingle with the desperation to _touch_ \--

"They're separating." Slade speaks the words against the nape of Dick's neck. "He remains at the bar. She's heading to the east side."

"Bar," he grits out. He doesn't make it one step before Slade's mouth captures his, tilting his head back and kissing him possessively. Dick has learned long ago not to struggle against it, not when a warm tongue slips in and traces the contours of his mouth. 

Slade breaks off the kiss and releases him.

Dick doesn't waste any time. Already a timer starts in the back of his head, one that counts toward disaster if it runs out before he does. The man at the bar glances up in vague curiosity as Dick sits next to him.

"Hey." He wonders how he looks, with hair tousled and cheeks flushed red. _Begging to be fucked,_ Slade had once commented while fingering him open. Obviously there's a high chance the man won't respond to his tactics as well, but that's not Dick's overall objective. Not really, at least.

Slade's good at a lot of things, but he can't exactly pull off public charm. Dick, however, might as well been born for that role. Megawatt smiles for the more excitable, and a small, subtle smile to the more introverted. 

"Hello," the man replies cautiously, fingers still curled around an empty glass. 

_Rafael Gardner. 26. Human trafficker._

Dick's smile strains a little, but he manages to force the bile down his throat. He focuses on Rafael's thin face instead, a small trimmed mustache, a relatively young face. By all appearances, he's simply another young man seeking some solace in the rave of a nightclub. Maybe that applies a bit more to him than he's comfortable with. He asks the bartender for a cosmopolitan, sliding a few wrinkled bills across the counter. The drink is cold and somewhat flat against his tongue, and he takes a few measured sips before setting the glass back on the counter.

"I thought you looked a bit lonely," Dick continues, turning his body a little on the seat. The thing about criminals, he thinks, is that they're not all leering saggy faces with _I NEED TO GO TO JAIL_ begging to be branded on their foreheads. Some are as quiet and soft-spoken as Rafael here, nursing a drink long gone. No one would be the wiser. The music has dimmed slightly, enough that Dick doesn't feel the need to yell. "I figured...I mean, I'm new here, and I might as well get a bit more comfy."

Rafael hesitates before releasing his glass. "I'm also unfamiliar with this place. It's a bit loud for my taste."

"One hundred percent relatable. Do you wanna hit the floor with a stranger, then?"

Rafael bristles. "What?"

Dick jams a thumb over his shoulder, wondering what Slade's doing now. Is he charming the lady as well? Beating her into a bloody pulp? He thinks of hallways slick with blood, of Slade calmly cleaning his hands with a wipe, and conceals his shudder. "It's fine if you don't want to, but I was just wondering -- " he shrugs, shifting the weight of the decision onto the other man. "Maybe we can help each other."

Rafael's brow furrows in concentration. _A comm,_ Dick realises belatedly, watching the other man tilt his head ever so slightly. _He's got a comm._

"...I have to get going, but thank you for the offer." Rafael stands up, and out of the corner of his eye Dick glimpses the bodyguards' silhouettes as well. Without another word, Rafael heads towards the east side.

_Where Slade is._

There's a chance she's still alive -- Slade isn't likely to kill her in the club, right with so many people nearby. He's more likely to strangle her in the alleyway. Nausea grips Dick's stomach as he trails after Rafael.

_You sleep with him. You're no better._

The hallways are dark. There's several couples pinned along the wall, moaning and breathing to the point of obnoxiousness, and Dick hopes to himself that he didn't sound like that on the dance floor. He lets himself sink into the shadows, focusing solely on Rafael. If he's able to communicate with the comm, then it means that either the woman is still alive --

"Martin," Rafael snaps. "Lorna confirmed that the shipment is ready at the warehouse. Do you want to -- "

He breaks off, apparently listening to the voice on the other end. 

_Travers Martin. 31. Serial killer._ _Lorna Doyle. 29. Human slaver._ Dick holds his breath.

" -- yeah," Rafael continues, lowering his voice considerably. "It's -- wait, you haven't heard from her?"

More static.

"Yes, yes, it's still at the same location near the docks. I'm heading there in case there's -- "

He breaks off.

"...got it," Rafael finishes flatly, and lightly presses a finger along his ear. The call is over.

Dick wonders if he should get his own comm sometime with Slade. The immediate negatives flood into his brain -- someone, _Oracle,_ would hack into the line, it could be used as a tracker, it could be compromised -- but right now, he really wishes he could at least _tell_ Slade what the hell's happening. He can't use the phone either now, not unless he wants Rafael to catch him red-handed.

He _could_ delay Rafael if it means the shipment -- and with growing disgust, Dick sort of has an idea of what will be in the box -- is stalled, giving Slade enough time to wreck the business altogether, but even the mere thought goes against his principles. There's not going to be justice or the right of law. Slade will cut them into pieces and leave them lying for the dogs, and it might be what they _deserve._

But it's not for people like them to judge.

Dick sighs, glancing out of a small window and seeing the rain. The nightclub had been so cosy as well.

He waits until Rafael is out of sight before stripping off his disguise. He stashes the sweater and jeans in an empty room before slipping back into the hallway, slipping on his domino mask. No one notices him. How could they? This is his environment, shadows and surrealism, music and mayhem caught in some unholy drapery coating the building. He unlocks the window at the end of the hallway and slips out into the rain.

Rafael's already getting into a car. Thankfully Dick's able to locate his own cycle, conveniently stashed earlier nearby the nightclub almost an hour ago, and he grimaces at how much rainwater he's going to have to squelch out from the seat. Not surprisingly, Slade's car is gone from the curb.

The rain comes down harder. Dick shakes water out of his hair, waiting in the alleyway until Rafael's car disappears into a speck on the street. It takes seconds to kick the cycle into gear, and then he's _off_ , tyres grinding hard against the concrete. The velocity only makes the rain stream more into his nose and mouth, and he can't help but grin. He's missed this. He _missed_ this.

Thoughts whirl around in his head in a confusing, rapturous mess -- _how the hell is Slade following Doyle?_ (car, likely) _Why did they meet up at the nightclub instead of the location at the docks?_ Maybe he should investigate the club a bit more.

_No. I don't have time._

He twists the throttle.

He almost loses the other man in a highway surge, tires splashing up filthy water in glurges of brown and grey, and it's so undoubtedly _Bludhaven_ that he would almost laugh. How many times has he raced along the roads, listening to the night roar in his ears? It's effortless to twist among the cars, and soon the road splits into several routes. One loops back downtown, one slips and shrinks into the slums, and the third...

 _There!_

Rafael's car slips between a truck and an SUV, disappearing into the sidelines. Dick follows, the engine a low, soothing thrum under his thighs. The air grows cooler as he descends on the road, and to his relief the rain lessens as he dips into a span of overpasses and trees, the torrent reduced to a steady nuisance of droplets. The storm must be moving inward. Rafael's car doesn't even bother to pause for streetlights, and at this speed Dick can see the first traces of the docks.

The car takes a right, cutting through a worn ditch. Dick revs up the throttle and slams the brake, the whole bike sailing across the miniature gulch and shuddering from the impact of the landing. It's not raining anymore. Fresh cold air hits his face as the silhouette of ships loom into view. Dark choppy waters lap against the piers, the wooden jetties, the coarse sand littered with glass and shrapnel. It's a prime site for gangfights and he's had his fair share of confrontations here as well.

_Near the docks..._

It's a warehouse as unassuming as any, painted a dark, lustreless grey, partially shrouded by poplars. If it had been any darker, Dick might've not noticed it at all -- it's well-disguised in the slopes and angles of a hollowed cove. Rafael's car rolls to a stop near a set of double doors. Dick switches off his cycle and stows it near a brace of alders, in a perfect observational and access point, and climbs off. It's a huge mess of drenched foliage here. The sea smells salty and sharp, breezes carrying brine to his nostrils, and it reminds him of Slade's scent.

"Don't move."

Instinctively he wrenches around, sticks already up and blazing, but a set of armoured hands grab his chest and hip and _slam_ him down into the leaves. Sticks and pebbles crunch in his spine. Dick tenses, ready to kick, but relaxes minutely at the sight of a familiar orange-black mask.

He'd never thought the day would come where seeing Slade, fully armoured, would be a relief.

Slade pulls him back up, fingers digging hard into his forearm. Dick glances back -- in the midst of trees, he thinks he spots the chipped paint of Slade's car. The thought of Slade using his shitty sedan to follow Doyle makes him snort.

"Hush." All business-like, none of the slow, poisonous charm back at the nightclub. "You're just in time for operations. All three of them are there."

"Is there a reason why they went to the nightclub in the first place?"

"It might be a distraction." 

Dick frowns at that. Sometimes criminals have some bizarre sixth-sense in knowing when vigilantes would swoop into their base -- he doesn't know how many times he's burst into a lair, only to be almost-colossally screwed by a lovely layer of traps. Granted, it's _almost_ because the traps aren't exactly astounding, either, but the case still stands.

It's possible that Rafael -- or any of his triad, really -- knows Nightwing is on their tail. It doesn't make sense for him to allow Dick to track them down, then, unless...

"A trap." At that Slade angles his head up, his expression utterly unreadable through the mask. "They're laying out a trap for me in that warehouse." 

Slade snorts. "And?"

"And what?"

"What are you worried about? Now that you know about it, they might as well not have done it at all."

"It's too obvious of one." Criminals aren't on the same brand of street smarts either -- exhibit A proves one in Bludhaven's police station cells, the other standing right next to him. "But then again, they might not know someone hired you to take a hit on them."

"Most don't." It's barely visible, but a narrow flash of silver has a katana sliding smoothly into Slade's hand. Dick's palms feel sweaty in his gloves. He swallows a little and turns his attention back to the warehouse instead.

"How are we doing this?"

"Window on the south side. It's nailed down."

In other words, not an obstacle at all. "So you want me to sneak in?"

"The building has rafters. I assume you wanted to handle the..." Slade pauses, _very deliberately_ fishing for words. "...the cargo personally. I'll take care of the three."

Dick scrapes his sticks together. It's a nervous tic he's picked up over the years, similiar to how a sniper cleans his gun or how Slade polishes his armour -- an almost absentminded motion that makes his heartbeat match with the outside rhythm. 

"You'll keep your word?"

"You can tell yourself that."

.

.

.

Two nights ago, a single text message pops into Dick's phone as he's eating takeout on his counter. Shitty apartments are a constant no matter where in the world one travelled to, and the grunge of Bludhaven didn't beg for any discrepancy. He's not sure if what he's eating is noodles or vegetables; they're mixed in this weird morass of stewed crap resting at the bottom of the box, coagulating with salt and brown sugar. 

He eats every bite. The little plastic box is balanced precariously on his knee, his phone on the other -- _no reports, signals_ \-- and when the message appears, it's only years of honed skills that saves the box from spilling onto the linoleum.

**_UNKNOWN NUMBER_ **

_Business. Don't interfere._

He's not even going to _ask_ how Slade got his number. In seconds he's dialing, the smell of his supper souring what little appetite he had. To anyone looking in, he's the perfect image of relaxed ease, but his heart is practically leaping in his throat. His hand almost slips on the phone.

"Nightwing," Slade's voice greets him.

Dick doesn't even try to hide the flush of nervousness and thrill that pulses through his body. "Slade. What are you trying to do?"

"Stockpol wants the Carlton Triad gone." Dick grits his teeth at that; he's been trying to hunt them down for _weeks_ and he hasn't gotten any closer. "It's a competition thing. I'm sure you understand."

"No, I don't -- but I'm not letting you kill them."

"You know what they are, Grayson. Can you honestly tell me that the world would be worse off without them?"

 _Trafficker. Serial killer. Slaver._ Dick only has the bare bones of information on them, but those labels brand something ugly and insidious in his mind. It's the easiest thing to look the other way, to have Slade carve them up until they're borderline unrecognizable. He can deal with the fallout as Officer Grayson, turning a blind eye as the sea spits out their remains.

And then his mind clenches down on these thoughts, smashing them into ineffective smears. He didn't kill Harvey Dent back when he had the chance to. He didn't kill the Joker even when they had buried Jason. He hadn't tried to kill Slade, even when the other man had held him down and made him watch his friends being tortured from the inside out.

If he couldn't do it then, he couldn't do it now.

"Don't try it," he says instead, hoping his voice isn't shaking. There's a distinct impression that Slade _knows_ what he was thinking in the privacy of his skull. "The city's under _my_ protection. And that includes every resident in it as well."

"How touching."

"It's not going to work, Slade. It never would."

"I figured." _Then why even tell me?_ If Slade hadn't notified him, Dick might have not known the mercenary was in town at all. "But you're drawing off of the assumption that you could stop me."

And when it comes down to it, Dick knows Slade is right. If Slade truly wanted to take out the Triad, leave their broken and bleeding bodies for the police the next morning, then there's practically nothing Dick can do about it. He's never had that capability either. 

"What do you want?"

Slade tells him. It's a single word, and it's one he's heard so many times before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: how the mission goes down + a healthy dose of smut. I'll likely post the 2nd chapter this week, along with an update on Beacon if you follow that.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to drop a kudos/comment below (and if you want to throw out some ideas for future fic ideas for these two, then feel free to :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one part unrealistic action, one part smut :D 
> 
> Warning for human trafficking, violence, unsafe sex.
> 
> medical knowledge? physics? what dick wears under the suit? what's that?

Two nights of planning. Two nights of intel. One of sneaking into BPD's file cabinets, one talking with one of Slade's contacts. It culminates in the exciting climax of trying to wriggle through the window, hoping against hope that there aren't any alarms.

"Did you hear something?" Rafael's voice.

Dick freezes. The rafters are a good metre away, and it's a fairly easy slide from the ledge -- but if they glance up even minutely, they'd notice him. He halts on the ledge, his leg straining from bearing his entire weight.

"Maybe it was just the wind."

Dick has to hide a snort at that. Wind doesn't creak open windows.

Footsteps move away. Dick lets out a slow breath and shuffles slowly onto the rafters, trying not to let the wood groan under his weight. He's walked quieter on metal poles before. The wood planks crisscross the entire span of the warehouse, which seems to be a mostly large, empty grey room with a vacant line of shelves. The other windows closer to ground level are all shuttered, much to his dismay. If he needs to escape, he'll have to go through those double doors or back out the window he came from.

 _Cargo. I need to find the cargo._ The Triad's record mostly deals with young adults -- men, women, it didn't matter. There's no sound of a struggle currently, so they're out of sight and likely unconscious. Frustration builds in him; he has to get them out, pronto, fight off the three -- shouldn't be _too_ bad -- and make sure Deathstroke gets neither.

Easy-peasy.

The three of their voices are getting softer now. Dick crawls along the rafters, little splinters of wood digging into his gloved palms, and the roof is low enough that the slope scrapes against his spine. Still, he stays by the sidelines, trying to gauge out the room below. There has to be some sort of closet somewhere. There's a few large crates stacked in the centre, but there's no way they're large enough to get an adult stuffed inside. Maybe they've already been transported -- but then, there would be no reason for the triad to meet at all. That's too much of a risk. Unless his trap theory holds up, but nothing's been set off even when he entered the warehouse, and they've given no hint that they know he's here. And if they _did_ know he's there, then they should've tried to cut something with him. Attack him, try to blackmail him, take some hapless victim hostage. _Any_ sign.

_Clrrk._

Babs once told him that his lens practically widened with his eyes, even when it wasn't physically possible. He doesn't know what his expression resembles right now, probably paralleling someone getting socked straight in the gut -- and there it is again.

_Clrrkk._

The _crate._ The crate is not empty. It's not goddamn empty. It's got -- it's got fucking _cargo_ in it -- and an adult might not be able to fit into there, sure, but a _kid_ could.

_Clrrrk._

Fury rises in him, hot and violent as boiling tar.

 _"Nightwing."_ It's an unfamiliar male voice -- it must be Martin's. Dick almost falls off of the rafters in surprise. "Please come down here."

His heart hammers wildly against his ribs. _How -- ?_

"I can hear you, Nightwing. I can hear your breathing."

 _Play it cool. Don't let them see your fear. Your anger._ "You've caught me," he calls back down, his voice full of an easy joy that he feels absolutely none of. "Mind telling why I should right now, though? Maybe I like the view up here better."

"The crates are laced with explosives." A female voice -- _Doyle_ \-- cuts in calmly. "Please come down. We'd rather not risk our services."

Dick glances back at the crates, wondering if she's bluffing, but he picks out thin, oblong black bars along the crate, almost sewn into the wood. He wouldn't have noticed it on first observation.

 _There's fucking kids in there._ For a moment he wonders if he could just step aside for Slade, just once -- and then it gets wrested down, swallowed by anger and disgust.

"So be it, then."

" _No!_ No, it's fine, really." Dick effortlessly leaps down from the rafters, the concrete's impact barely a shudder. He doesn't remember drawing out his escrima sticks, but they're already there, the tips glowing a faint blue. 

The Triad stands before him. There's Rafael, still prim and well-dressed from the nightclub; Martin stands besides him in ragged shirt and slacks, broad shoulders straining under the fabric. Doyle folds her arms over a heavy trench coat and dress pants, like she just walked out of a meeting. Ordinary people. There's no hint of their work in them; plain, attractive faces, browns and dark blondes of hair, sturdy frames. They stare at him like the way a pedestrian stares at a rat crawling from the gutter.

Dick puts on a winning smile, even if all of his teeth are showing. "I feel like we can reach a compromise somewhere here. You know what you're doing is against the law, right?" From his tenure as officer, he can't resist the reading-out-rights even during his vigilantism, which probably violates every other civil law in the book.

"We're doing a job," Martin spits out. "It would be in your best interest not to interfere."

Funny, that's what Slade tells him. Dick doesn't listen to either. "You know, people tell me that _all the time._ "

They're not even armed. That should have conjured a thousand red flags right there and then, but it's been a long night and maybe he's not thinking straight at all; maybe it's the crates, or the alcohol, or the club, or the dark, growing restlessness that itches in his core whenever Deathstroke is in town. Or maybe it's just the weather. In any case, he's already leaping at Martin, slamming one foot hard across the jaw.

He might as well kicked a stone wall. 

_What?_

Martin _moves._ And then it becomes clear to Dick -- their confidence, the openness of the warehouse -- as metal encases his arms, his fists, his entire body, until he's practically a walking suit of armour. The punch _snaps_ his head back -- any harder and his neck might break.

_Metas._

Dick's body instantly settles onto instinct; he's grappling back up the rafters, the tether tightening as he aims another kick at Martin's face. For someone who just tripled their weight, Martin moves _fast_ \-- the ground cracks under his feet even as Dick leaps, planting his feet on the metahuman's shoulders. Dick twists, spins, jams one foot hard against the spine. Martin doesn't even flinch. Hard, cold hands grab his arms and fling him onto the ground, and he barely rolls away from the next punch. The impact is so close to his skull that the sound pierces through his ear like gunshots.

"Didn't expect a meta?"

"I've fought worse," Dick says, his false cheer rapidly deterioating into mounting anxiety. None of the files even gave a _hint_ that any of the Triad had abilities, or any combat prowess at all. The lack of guards should have been a red flag as well. The truth feels so obvious, now that it's blatantly waving in front of his face.

Another punch swings down. Dick crouches, jumps, and strikes _hard_ at the side of the knee with his heel.

There's no time to react. Martin swings again, and then smoke is filling the warehouse. Smoke, because there's a damn _fire_ being set off.

Rafael rises from the flames almost demonically, and shapes solidify from the smoke -- _the bodyguards._ They hadn't been real. Dick swallows, and then he hears another sound.

_Electricity._

The ground erupts in a mess of concrete and mud even as lightning _races_ up his leg. The pain sharpens every sense into a disorienting wave, and he's barely aware of staggering to his feet. Tendrils of electricity wrap around Doyle's arm, crackling into the air, and the entire warehouse smells like ash.

"I thought I recognized you from the club," Rafael mentions conversationally. "How are you feeling now?"

 _Perfect,_ his tongue threatens to quip, but his self-preservation tells him to swing back up the rafters. He has to move this fight away from the crates, away from the kids inside. He dodges another punch from Martin as he swings towards the double doors, and then flames roar up his leg. Flameproof material only lessens the heat; Dick flings a birdarang at Rafael, hoping to at least clip his hand. It lodges itself in the ground instead.

_Crap._

It's a sickening, mad blur. Physical danger comes from Martin's blows -- one punch and it'll be over, and so he twists and flips and does his best to avoid -- but the flames lick up his leg, and the smoke compresses deep into his throat. Lightning - or some variant of it - strikes in agonizing lashes, like a whip being branded into bare skin. They work in tandem. He needs to take down one of them to disrupt their balance, but it's hard to choose in the chaos of smoke and deprived air and the _sounds,_ wood groaning and creaking and concrete shattering and his own breathing, raspy and desperate. He latches onto another plank, trying to time his jumps. They can't keep it up forever.

Neither can he.

He can't fight all three, not unless he wants to walk away alive.

More smoke curls around him. He closes his eyes, adrenaline racing in his heart -- _you've fought worse, you've been through worse_ \-- and tries to think. Tries to concentrate. Doyle's lightning strikes take time to recharge, but each shock is crippling. He needs to time it right. If he gets near her and she manages to directly touch him...

The lightning scorches up his spine, and the pain makes him dizzy.

_Go._

He flies. Doyle isn't expecting it -- he leaps straight at her, striking both sticks _hard_ across her face. It feels good. It feels _right._ Tendrils light up her arms, her legs, and he slams a knee into her chest, his limbs shaking from the effort -- 

\-- and then Martin's picking him up as effortlessly as a kid with a toy, and he _collides_ with the wall. The armour can only absorb so much impact. His chest twists and heaves, convulses, annd he stares in empty befuddlement as blood splatters over his suit.

"Not up to your usual game, Nightwing?"

He tries to speak. Some mindless fog clogs up his brain, making his tongue slur, and panic rises in his chest. He's not up to full. There's something -- there's something _wrong_ \--

Dick claws at his throat, trying to suck in air. Smoke burns his lungs, but it's better than nothing.

_Why am I --_

"Your little substance couldn't have kicked in sooner?" Doyle grumbles, rubbing her stomach. "The little bastard hits like a train, Jesus."

 _Substance?_ He hasn't eaten anything, drank anything, except -- 

_The cosmopolitan. The one I drank at the nightclub, right next to Rafael._ Rafael couldn't have slipped anything into his beverage, unless --

_The bartender._

Dick's mind races for possibilities. It's only now starting to affect him, and it seems to act similarly to a sedative, slowly but surely shutting his mind down. He could beat off its effects if he gets enough air, but the _smoke_ \-- and the strain on his body from the battle -- eat up his body from the inside, draining him into a mess. It won't kill him. It doesn't need to. Fear creeps up his throat like poison, and his heart is starting to slow down into deep, unsteady pulses. When he exhales, a breath rattles from his lungs.

_I'm going to die here._

It's a soft sound that breaks him out of his haze. He might not have heard it at all, not with the cacophony of sounds ringing all over the warehouse, and maybe it didn't even exist.

It's a whimper. A soft, broken whimper from the crates, specifically, like someone's trying to muffle a sob.

Dick clenches his jaw. _Not today._

The window -- wooden shutters and all -- explodes inward.

Glass rains down on the floor. Dick's fingers tremble to hold on the sticks, but he sees the custom blur of orange and black armour, followed by metal ringing against metal. 

_Slade._

"Nightwing."

Something crashes in his periphery, and then Deathstroke is standing over him, hauling him to his feet. There's so much smoke. He can barely focus on anything now, not with the rafters grating and metal echoing off of his eardrums.

" _Get up._ What happened to you?"

"...drugged," he manages, and his chest squeezes in pain.

"And you said you didn't want my help," Slade says flatly, even as he angles himself so that Dick is behind him. Three shapes loom into view, but now they're hanging back in wariness.

"Deathstroke."

"Triad." Slade's voice is flat, but it contains a mocking edge. "Are you surprised?"

"I wouldn't say -- "

Faster than a blink of an eye, Slade whips out a pistol and flips off the safety. _Bang. BANG._ Two bullets nail the spot where Rafael stands, and flames envelop the third, scorching metal until it melts into a tiny puddle.

Dick doesn't hesitate on the opening. His body's still struggling to fight the sedative, but if there's anything he learned under Bruce's tenure, it's that he can fling a birdarang blindfolded, drowning, and possibly free-falling at the same time. He throws a flashbang now, grappling back up to the rafters. He can't stay grounded. He hears sounds of battle from behind, a voice grunting in pain.

He grapples unsteadily and sails, flipping to land behind Rafael. This close the flames are painful even against Nomex, but it doesn't stop him from punching Rafael squarely across the nose.

"Nightwing -- "

Another punch. The anger swells up at once, and this time he uses the stick as a backhand. Blood spurts across Rafael's thin face, coating his teeth and gums. The fourth punch knocks him onto his back.

"You don't kill," Rafael stammers out, the fire threatening to sputter into wisps. "You -- you don't kill, even if -- "

It's pure, roiling fury that makes him sink his knuckles a fifth time. Bone cracks from the impact, and Dick isn't sure if it's the heat of the fire or the one rising inside that directs his fists. Again. Again.

" _Kids,_ " he snarls, his voice barely recognizable. "That's fucking _children_ in there. You -- you _monster._ "

Rafael glares up at him, embers burning where the pupils would be.

"That's rich, coming from someone working with _Deathstroke._ "

Dick raises his fist, the other pulling tight at Rafael's collar so it chokes. He can barely concentrate. "Call it off. Call it off and I'll let you walk away with your legs intact." He doesn't know if he can carry through his threat, but now, _right now,_ while the flames burn, he just might. He feels like he's trapped in his own Hell.

Rafael raises his arm. It takes Dick a solid, terrifying second to realise it, the implication hitting him like a truck. He's already reaching for it, his shoulderblades straining from the suddenness of muscle and bone --

"Sure," Rafael comments calmly, even as his thumb squeezes down a detonator. "I can call it off."

Dick doesn't weigh in judgement. The final punch lands so hard that it pops his knuckles, and warm blood spills onto his fingers. Rafael slumps into unconsciousness. It's too late. _The explosives_ \-- and there's _timers_ on the crate, fucking timers, but he can't reach there in his state. He can't get them out of the crates on time.

Slade's fighting Martin and Doyle simultaneously. Dick's directive to him -- non-lethal -- clearly holds him back, with him turning the blade instead of slashing, other hand still firing off shots from the pistol. Bullets bounce harmlessly off of Martin's skin. Dick makes to move towards the crates, the timer red and glaring on the wood. _Thirty. Thirty seconds._ One word, and he could release Slade from his agreement. He could let the other man cut them into pieces. 

It's never been an option.

" _Slade_ ,"he whispers, tasting blood and desperation at the back of the throat, "get the kids."

 _Please,_ he adds mentally, _please listen to me. For once._

He doesn't even know if Slade hears him; but he can't reach there in time. Not with the way his legs stumble and shake like they're made of wet cement. But there's a shift now, and he's aware of Martin and Doyle turning their attention to him. Turning it because --

\-- because Slade's moving to the crates, giving Dick an unreadable glance before slipping away.

_Thirty seconds._

_I only have to fight them for thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight._

Slade would've held against them easily. Doyle's strike makes him crumple onto the ground. The pain is so immense that his mind almost shuts down for a second to spare his body, but then his nerves flare back in raw, white agony like he's being dropped onto a pit of spikes. He barely ducks Martin's punch, his stomach clenching from the effort. Sweat and blood drip into his eyes. _Time of my life here._ How many seconds? Ten? Twenty? He doesn't know if he can stand that long, let alone fight.

Martin's next punch coincides with Doyle's strike.

For a single moment he's lifted in the air, and he's -- it's like riding high on a wave, but then the cold, harsh water crashes down in a cataract and he's drowning, his hands useless and numb. The sticks roll from his fingers. He can't even move them. It feels like he's utterly paralyzed from head to toe, blackness lapping in his vision.

"Get Rafael," he hears Doyle saying, and her voice is all hollow and warbly like a bad movie effect. He's slumped on the floor, watching the rafters slowly get swallowed by what remains of Rafael's flames. "If the warehouse collapses on Nightwing, then it's not on us. We don't need the Bats here."

Someone wails in the distance.

It feels like someone's tied a bag of coals to his neck, but Dick tries lifting his head. There's so much blood in his eyes that all he can see is a faint red haze, but then his vision clears -- if minutely -- and -- and -- armoured hands are picking him up, even as blood gurgles in his mouth. 

"...Slade?"

"I got your weapons." He's getting dragged across the floor, crackened, burnt concrete scraping against his boots. "The place is going to blow in seconds."

"...the kids," Dick mumbles, before gasping in pain. 

"I got them outside. They should be running to the trees."

The double doors are wide open. Dick only glimpses a sliver of sky, clearing from the rainstorm, when --

Slade shoves him onto the ground as the explosions go off. 

It's like the entire ground splits open. Dirt and mud disintegrate into shreds even as the walls _crumple_ outward like paper -- it's not a spectacularly large explosion, but a white-ball of fire shatters the sky into light and energy. Slade's still holding him down, and Dick belatedly realises his armour is glowing a faint crimson, absorbing the impact. Tears appear along the ridges. Any more energy, and it's going to deflect back into his surroundings, turning Dick into a paste of flesh and blood.

His ears are ringing. He focuses on Slade's mask instead, and Slade stares back down at him. They're caught in a moment of timelessness as the walls are shredded to pieces. An inch closer, and the explosion would have blown out Dick's spine.

The shaking ceases to a rumble.

When Dick glances down, it doesn't even look like his suit anymore. Red blossoms like flowers along his arms, legs, the force partially crushing his innards. His laugh is weak, his throat involuntarily squeezing for air. Smoke burns every lung tissue and capillary.

Very gently, Slade picks him up.

The Triad's still outside. Doyle is hunched over Rafael's unconscious body, trying to zap little bursts into the man's chest. They don't notice Slade walking up on them, not until he sets Dick back on the wet grass. The movement feels like it grinds every single bone in his body. 

Slade walks up to Rafael.

He doesn't break his promise. Dick doesn't have to see Martin or Doyle screaming to _hear_ the crunch and snap of bone, of muscle torn to bloody strips. Slade must have deflected the energy into the Triad. He hears a raw scream of terror, one that cuts the air like a knife through silk, and he lies there. It's warmer now, whether from the flames or the fact that daylight isn't too many hours away. He can hear the ebb and swell of the sea.

"Let's go, kid."

Dick cranes his head, slowly. 

"You didn't kill them," he croaks.

"No." Slade hefts him into his arms, as if he's carrying a newborn baby. There's blood all over his armour; a smell that can never be washed out. Dick breathes it in. "But they'll never walk again."

Dick thinks of Barbara, of his own threat to Rafael, and holds back the urge to sob.

Four kids wait for them in the clearing. Two boys, two girls; the oldest is probably thirteen; the youngest, a toddler barely knowing to walk, huddles behind her leg. They're all dressed in grimy clothes, faces stained with blood and soot, pale red scars cut in their faces. _The slums of Bludhaven._ Where no one would notice their disappearance, or mourn their deaths. A pang thumps in his chest.

He wonders what scene he and Slade cuts; an armoured mercenary carrying the bloody, broken body of Bludhaven's finest. He's been injured more heavily before, but there's always _allies_ nearby. Batman, the Titans -- but now it's just Slade, staring back at the children with the same blankness he has before killing a person. It's probably a blackly hilarious tableau to any outside observers.

"...who are you?" The eldest kid whispers, edging away. Dick would have laughed if he could.

Slade doesn't miss a beat. "An ally." He lowers Dick onto the grass again, still soft and cool from the rain. "Is there anything you can do for him?"

"We -- "

"I _know_ you're metas," Slade's voice sharpens, but it's surprisingly a lot more gentle than what Dick is used to hearing. "Your crates are laced with anti-regenerative suppressants." _I'm familiar with them_ doesn't ever escape his mouth, but Dick hears it as loud and clear as shattered crystal.

"I..." The oldest kid shuffles back further. "Are you going to hurt us?"

 _Don't you dare,_ Dick wants to snarl out to Slade, but all that comes out is a ragged cough.

"Heal him."

The kid's touch is hesitant. Unsure. Dick can't feel the anger he should feel at Slade for scaring them, but then a cool, ebbing relief seeps slowly into his body, like a pair of hands caressing his muscles. It soothes his muscles, the burns, until the pain fades into a throbbing soreness. It's like falling asleep in a luxurious tub. When Dick draws his next breath, it's a normal one, not a shuddering rattle.

Slowly, so slowly, he pushes himself upright.

"Nightwing," the girl whispers in awe.

Normally, he'd grin. Normally he'll wave, give a hug, anything to assauge her fear. Here, though, as the truth sinks horribly into his bones, he can only muster a weak half-smile.

.

.

.

The cycle miraculously fits in the trunk. Dick drives, the four kids sit in the back, and he tries not to laugh at the mental image of Slade sitting at shotgun. He holds it in. He holds it until the police department building comes into view.

"Look for someone named Amy Rohrbach," he says, trying to make his tone as stern yet kind as possible. "Tell her that Nightwing brought you here. She'll know what to do." It's been some time since Amy kicked him from the force (and to boot, protecting her from the man sitting not a foot away), but he still trusts her. He'll contact her later on the Triad.

"Thank you," the youngest kid mumbles, blinking up at him with wide eyes. 

He watches them enter the building, sees Rohrbach's silhouette walk up to the kids, and then leaves. He drives the sedan back to Slade's apartment. They sit in strained, tense silence; the rain within the city has reduced to a smattering of droplets, and a shimmering layer settles over the buildings. 

_4207 Rockwater Blvd. Floor Four. Door Seven._

They climb into the apartment via the fire escape. It's a behaviour so familiar that he barely realises he's doing it, only that his body is exhausted and his mind sinking, dragging, threatening to pull him back into a hole he can barely crawl out of. His uniform streaks blood and dirt across Slade's pristine apartment, but he really couldn't give less of a damn.

Alcohol. He wouldn't mind that. Slade must have read his mind, since he purposely fills a glass with water and pushes it across the countertop. Dick peels off his mask and stows it into his belt before taking the glass. It flushes the last of the drug from his head, even as he sags against the couch. He drinks every drop, feeling it slide down his throat, before speaking.

"Stockpol wanted the kids."

Slade slowly tugs off his mask and joins him on the couch. He removes his weaponry and armour piece by piece, with a meticulous efficiency that has always made Dick's mouth dry, until he's stripped down to the shirt and slacks he wore to the nightclub. He starts cleaning his sword.

"You already know the answer to that."

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

Slade's silence is answer enough.

 _Great._ Great to hear. Dick wishes the water was wine right now so that he can forget his heart twisting, or his stomach clenching like he swallowed something poisonous down. _Oh wait, I already did tonight._ He's been pummeled, shocked, burned, drugged, and almost blown up in less than a span of an hour, which must be some kind of new track record for him, but it's Slade's absolute lack of expression that tops it. 

"If I didn't come here..." he begins.

"I would have killed the three." Slade's muscles ripple and tense as he wipes the rag along the sword. "Stockpol has its own agents. I would've transported the cargo to them afterwards."

"They're _kids,_ Slade." 

"I never said I'd enjoy it." Wipe, rub, repeat. Wipe, rub, repeat. "But it's a job, and it pays well. I'm sure you're familiar with that."

_Putting the job before your morals._

Dick drains the last drop, stands, and throws the glass at Slade's face.

The shattering doesn't even perturb him. Glass shards cut into his skin, forming a sudden web of bloody, dripping slashes, and the bastard doesn't even stop _cleaning_ his sword. Wipe, rub, repeat. The glass gleams on the cushions and rug, so finely shredded it looks like sand. 

"You know," Slade comments casually, "there's only one other person that tried that before and still lives today. Do you want to take a guess, Grayson?"

Dick stands there, just _stands,_ his chest sucking in air. The suit suddenly feels too tight on him, like it's hot, dirty paint lathered on skin, or maybe it's the emotions _surging_ in him like a bomb ready to set off.

And the worst part is -- he's mad at himself for being surprised. It's like being told the Joker's insane, or that the sun comes up in the east. He _knows_ Slade. He knows him ever since the man first appeared years ago, ready to gun down each hero that stood in his way. This is a man who's had his hands wrapped around his throat more times than he can count, beat him down until he can barely limp away, someone who'd shoot out his heart in a second if anyone offered enough money. Morals don't even come to it. _Code, limits..._ it's not so much as alien as simply unapplicable. And he _knows_ all of this. It's ingrained into his body and nerves like a second suit. Lives are just numbers; the anguish, the resultant, crushing grief, only emotional collateral damage.

"Rafael wasn't wrong," he grits out, remembering young, fearful eyes. "You're a monster. You just happen to ask money up first instead."

"Why are you even surprised?" Slade _finally_ sets down the damn sword, staring back up at him calmly. Dick's the one suited, standing, yet Slade cuts all the more intimidating in nothing but casual wear. "You know who I am."

"Because -- " Dick searches for words, and comes up empty. _Because nothing._ Because nothing has changed, not since they started this whole _thing_ almost a year ago, and yet he had thought -- he had thought he might have --

_Changed him? Softened his edge? Made him less cruel?_

He thinks of Slade carrying him out, the hands sturdy and firm under his legs. Never once did he think the other man would drop him, or lose his grip on him. Never once did he consider the possibility that Slade would break his word.

"I'm..."

 _I'm leaving_ is what should come out. There's never been a _lowest crime_ that Slade can't commit; it's simply that no one has dared to ask him yet. Slade's eye is almost contemplative as it traces down his frame, to his unsteady stance and shaking hands. Dick's minutely aware of the shirt stretching and relaxing over the chest muscles as Slade breathes, each movement full of a deadly, repressed grace. 

It's his own grave he's digging, after all.

He doesn't know who moves first -- Slade stands and steps over the shattered glass, the cuts on his face already healing, and then large, broad hands push him against the wall. Dick doesn't have time to admire the effortless display of power before Slade's kissing him harshly, a wild, chaotic mess of teeth and tongue. He doesn't even have time to react, only subside, as Slade thoroughly maps out his mouth. His beard scrapes roughly against Dick's jaw, and he smells of metal, blood, and -- 

Dick reaches up and grabs him by the hair, dragging him closer. Slade grabs his wrists, pinning them to the wall on either side of his head, and Dick moans softly. His legs feel like jelly. He doesn't pause to think or regret; he hoists his legs around Slade's waist, letting the other man press against him closer. Close enough that almost every inch of him is pinned to the wall, enough that he can feel each hot, hard angle as Slade grinds his hips against his own.

It's one of his biggest fantasies. He loves being pinned and thrown around, to be so utterly bracketed that he can barely move his own muscles, and every single one of Slade's motions lights up a nerve somewhere. Slade's just so much _bigger._ Bigger and taller and broader and so much stronger, strength in his hands potent enough to crack bones like matchsticks; those same hands curl even tigher around his wrists until he _knows_ there'll be a ring of blackened bruises by tomorrow. Slade's tongue slides softly along his own, and it should wet and sloppy, but instead he whimpers at the sensation.

" _Hnngh_ \-- "

Slade lifts his head, separating their mouths, and their breaths intermingle. Dick doesn't know who's panting harder. The mouth clamps down on his throat, right over his Adam's Apple, and he gasps at the heat that shoots straight to his groin. White hair tickles his chin. He can feel Slade's own hardness pressing into his thigh. Slade bites deep, painful hickeys into his neck, his collarbone, licking and sucking at the skin like it's a delicacy. Dick doesn't even recognize his own voice now, roughened and unsteady, a moan forming in his throat as Slade kisses at the junction of his neck and shoulder. 

Slade licks a stripe from neck to jaw, the warmth of his breath making Dick twist his hips desperately. 

"You can still leave, Grayson," Slade murmurs into his ear, kissing softly along his cheekbone. "No one's stopping you." Dick digs his heel into Slade's back, pressing their mouths back together.

"Stop -- " he manages, gasping and moaning as Slade grinds against him, "stop _teasing_ me."

Slade complies. His wrists are released, and Dick drags Slade back for another kiss even as hands grab his ass and hoist him higher. The wallpaper rubs at his back through the suit. Fingers knead _hard_ at his ass and thighs, making Dick's breath stutter, as Slade continues to mouth along his throat. It's a testament of power; a sign of misplaced trust, to have a murderer's teeth so close to his jugular. Dick traces Slade's scalp, letting his hands wander down to the back of his neck, his cock hot and hard to the point of painful. 

"Is this enough?" Slade's voice lowers to a murmur as his hands wedge to the back of Dick's suit. "Is this _enough_ for you?"

The voice makes him tremble. Dick must be covered in ten types of dried blood and sweat, but Slade doesn't even hesitate -- he unzips and _drags_ the suit off of him, kicking it away, until Dick's in nothing but his boxers. Warm lips close around his nipple, sucking hard and long until Dick lets out a soft cry, his hips twitching up to meet Slade's. Every part of his skin that Slade touches feels like electricity.

" _Is it?"_

Dick leans down and bites his neck in response.

The next moment he's free, no longer pushed against the wall, but then Slade grabs him hard by the wrist -- like they're fighting -- and drags him to the small bedroom. Instinctively Dick draws back, giving himself space, but Slade twists his shoulder and arm and _throws_ him onto the mattress. The blankets are thin and ragged. Slade pushes him down with a hand on the back of his neck, and Dick tries to ignore the heat in his cock, focusing on the soft, moonlit contours of the bedroom, the scratchiness of the sheets. The vulnerability of the position, with his ass jutting out and knees spread painfully, should embarrass him, but arousal pools sharply in his stomach. It's a physical, all-compassing urge to touch himself, the front of his boxers already wet with precome, but Slade pins his hand next to his head.

"Scared?" the older man asks, his breathing now noticeably ragged. He releases his hand. 

The knowledge that he _has_ that effect on him -- that he, out of all people, could make Deathstroke the Terminator turn away from a contract -- has Dick shuddering, trying to stabilise his breathing. Slade can snap his neck so easily -- twist his head right off his shoulders. He can strangle him, catch him in a headlock, slip a knife right through his spine. There's never been doubt that Slade can kill him just as easily out of uniform as in it. And yet...

"No," Dick whispers.

Fingers pull off his boxers. Dick knows the routine by now -- he props himself on his elbows and knees, wincing slightly as cool air stings over his ass and thighs, flushing with humiliation. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Slade stripping off his clothes, tossing them onto the floor. It's easy to imagine him, to picture him in his head; Slade, thick, roped muscle defining his chest and back, arm muscles the size of his own thighs, completely enveloping his own frame. What happens next all depends on what mood Slade is in. Judging by tonight, it's a sickening calm that settles him over like ice, and it'll only amplify what's to come.

Something warm and wet trails across his ass.

The scream rips involuntarily out of Dick's throat. Slade's spreading his cheeks apart, the wiry hairs of his beard scraping his skin, and all Dick can think of is _heat, warmth_ \-- it's all his body knows -- as Slade tongues against the hole. He _can't_ \-- Dick pounds a fist into the mattress, trying to alleviate the pressure that rushes through his body like a current, his cock aching and swollen. He tries to speak. Tries to say anything. All that comes out is a dizzying, obscene moan, one dragged from the depths of his stomach, so long and loud that it sounds like it came directly from a porn film. 

The wetness draws away, and Dick sobs quietly in frustration.

"So impatient," Slade observes, not even out of breath. "You're ready to come, aren't you? You could come without me even touching it."

There's nothing particularly special about Slade's words, but the way cold disdain drips from his mouth makes Dick flush harder. He squeezes his eyes shut. _It's my own grave._ One day he'll walk away from this, view this whole thing with the shame and anger it deserves, but not right now. He can't think; he can only go forward, burning the bridge behind as he runs.

" _Please,_ " he whispers hoarsely instead, hating how his voice cracks.

There's a rustling sound behind him, along with the sound of something uncapping. Cold, slick fingers circle around his rim, brushing lightly, and Dick bites back another moan. It's _torturous,_ to draw it out so long, to bring him so close to the edge before snatching it away. 

"Why do you even come here?"

Dick releases a shuddering breath as one finger slowly enters. It brushes along his walls and he seizes up, a choked warmth pulsing through his body, and he clenches his teeth. There's no point in further debasing himself.

"It's not the sex," Slade continues in a conversational tone, slowly adding in another finger. The brush against his prostate makes Dick's vision white out in a shock of pleasure and pain. He tries to enunciate words, but only a whine comes out, hard and desperate. It sounds pathetic; needy. "It can't be for the pleasure of my company, either."

 _Stop,_ Dick's rationale tells him, but his body translates it to arching his back, trying to fuck himself back on those fingers. Sweat drips down his temples. 

"So what's the real answer here, Grayson?"

The fingers withdraw, and Dick sucks in a breath when he feels the head of Slade's cock nudge against his ass, wet from lube. Hands encircle his hips possessively.

"F- _fuck_ me," Dick gasps out, tears gathering in his eyes.

Slade _slams_ into him. Dick _screams_ at that, clawing at the blankets, as Slade's cock slides in and out, again and again and _again._ The pace jostles his body violently, roughly dragging his skin across the blankets, and he can only moan and whimper and sob endlessly at each motion. Each thrust fills his body with a rippling, terrifying heat that feels like he's being consumed by pure fire; each withdrawal feels like a void opening up in his stomach, cold dropping to his toes. Slade's hand fastens around his neck again, fingers tight on each side of his throat, and Dick gurgles weakly at that. The lack of air makes dizziness rush into his head, sharpening each pulse of heat until it _burns_ deep into his core. The bed's creaking from the raw force, the headboard slamming into the wall over and over, and all Dick can do is _submit,_ remain pliant, let himself be used as a hole. Slade adjusts the angle, fingers digging bruises into his hips, and each hit against the prostate has Dick gasping like he's been running a marathon. His cock is hard enough that it juts upward, precome smearing and dripping down to the blankets. When he tries to touch himself again, Slade grabs both wrists and wrenches them behind his back.

He falls on the chest, the impact somehow having Slade drive into him at a deeper angle. There's no agency here, no autonomy; he's a toy now, some object to be taken apart, even as his cock swells from the searing heat. For several seconds the only sounds are his own breathing, hoarse and raspy, with the slap of heated skin against skin covering any of Slade's own sounds. Slade's pace slows down deliberately, and Dick hazily realises that he's been drooling open-mouthed, heat flushing his face and shoulders. Tears stream freely down his face. His toes curl in a desperate attempt to relieve the building heat, even as a low, slow thrust along his prostate makes his eyes roll back. 

Then Slade fully _stops,_ like the prick he is, hips flush with Dick's ass, and Dick tries to grind back -- tries to clench tighter around his cock, tries to get even more of it into him -- and all he knows is agonizing, delicious heat, as Slade leans down and sucks another large hickey onto his neck. He's immobilised; he can't move, can't fight back; it's too much, it's _too much_ and not enough at all -- 

"Give me an answer," Slade says softly, rolling his hips in slow, small motions that make Dick want to shout. He's _so close,_ a white-hot heat churning in his balls and gut, but Slade won't let him. It's an uncomfortable angle to be held in for so long, with his face partially smushed into the mattress, but right now all he can concentrate on is the general heat, the sounds of his ragged breathing, heat and wetness and raw pleasure making him ache for more. 

Dick bites his lip, tasting blood, but doesn't answer.

Slade slowly slides out of him. It's Dick's only warning before he's being manhandled roughly, the room blurring into shadow as he finds himself straddling Slade. Slade doesn't hesitate; he grabs Dick's hips again, fingers slotting with the bruises he left there, and pulls him back down on his cock.

The next several seconds almost feels like a dream. Gravity does most of the work; all Dick knows is being lifted, dragged down, heat spearing straight to his brain as Slade fucks him. His hands find Slade's bare shoulders, chest, tracing corded muscle that he's wanted to touch ever since the club, fingers tugging at pale white chest hair. Slade's cock slides wetly in and out of him with a filthy sound, and Dick throws his head back in a soundless moan, closing his eyes. Heat simmers low in his gut. Their mouths crash together, and Dick's muscles strain from the exertion, but then Slade bites his throat, breathing hard through his nose, and it's that soft sound that pushes him over. 

Dick comes with a choked wail. His whole body shakes as if every bone dissolves into sand; all he can process is warm _wet_ heat pooling into his gut, even as white ropes of come splatter across both his and Slade's abdomen. Slade _snarls_ at that, teeth digging hard into his neck, and the final stutter of hips makes Dick moan loudly. Wetness fills his ass in a slow, dizzying flush.

He doesn't even have energy to move. Dimly, he's aware of Slade lifting him off, and his ass feels sore and _use_ , the muscle loose and twitching. His body decides for him -- he's slumping on the sheets, mindless, the orgasm cooling in his body with his cock and ass still dribbling come. He doesn't protest at being dumped into what's essentially a small puddle of sweat and semen. With the high of sex slowly receding, he can feel the bites stinging across his neck and shoulders, how scraped his mouth feels, how the bruises ache all over his torso and hips. Above all, it's the sudden coldness that paralyses him to the bed.

 _The edge,_ he thinks, his thoughts soft and muted like a decaying piece of cloth. A belated answer. _That's what I come here for._ How close he can get to the other side where Slade operates. How close he can get before his conscience and his logic haul him back.

Slade doesn't curl up behind him, or wrap an arm around him, or _anything._ He leaves him there. The rustle of clothes indicate Slade's dressing himself back up, and there's no warm touch or mumured words or -- Dick closes his eyes again, willing himself to stop caring. Willing the tears to be ones of pain, of pleasure, not of the aching hollowness that expands deep in his chest. He's utterly alone on the bed, left to stew in his own thoughts.

The shame comes in small, painful pulses.

He falls in and out of an agitated doze. Dreams never come, but sharp shreds of memory scrape along in the haze, memories of blood and screaming and a terrible guilt gnawing away. _I saved people,_ he tries to tell himself, but sleep crushes his assurance into dust. _You should have put him away years ago._ Yet here he is, shifting into the spot of blankets where Slade had been, desperate to catch a hint of his smell. He burrows his nose into the sheets, breaths shuddering out of his throat in shaky sighs. His thighs are sticky and clammy with come, and out of spite he decides to use the corner of the blanket to wipe it off. Let Slade deal with the mess. 

_That's rich, coming from someone working with Deathstroke._

It's not different at all, he thinks with a growing despondence. It's -- it's for _business_ \-- but the ache in his ass, and the less prominent one in his chest, tells him otherwise.

Dick sighs, and lets himself drift.

He doesn't fall back into true sleep, but he does stir slightly when he hears a voice from the living room. It's just Slade talking, presumably to someone on a phone. Consciousness trickles back into Dick like runoff water; he eases himself off of the mattress, wincing as his legs shake a little, and ignoring the remnants of a cold wetness still lingering on his legs, he hobbles to the bedroom door. Slade must have closed it. That simple action has his insides tighten with an emotion he doesn't dare to identify.

Can Slade hear his heartbeat from here? His footsteps?

Dick pauses at that, but decides to press his door against the wood anyway.

He can deal with the consequences.

"...is taken care of," Slade's saying, voice a quiet rumble. "They're not going to be providing any future trouble." It's a bit difficult to make out each syllable clearly, but the walls are thin enough for them to be audible.

There's a pause. 

"The children were already rescued," Slade continues, and Dick stiffens at that. The floor is cold under his feet. "I don't know why you're surprised. Bludhaven has its own vigilante."

Another pause. Dick gets the distinct impression that the person on the other end is yelling something.

"A contract," Slade says slowly, "on Nightwing."

The air freezes in Dick's lungs. He's suddenly aware of the fact that he's stark-naked, bruised and sore, and that his suit and gear are in the same room Slade is in. Common sense filters back into him. There _must_ have been no shortage of offers for Slade to take down Nightwing, from local crime bosses to maybe even Desmond himself, and Dick wonders how high his price is. If Stockpol can even _meet_ that price.

If they can...then he'll be dead before he even steps out of the room.

Dick doesn't hear Slade's answer. He tiptoes back to the bed, avoiding the messy spots, and curls up under the blankets. They're threadbare and don't even cover his feet properly, but it's a thin layer of protection against the harshness outside. The pillow is flat under his head. He's surprisingly calm about all of it. In the morning he'll wake up alone again, probably with Slade long out of town by then, and it's just another night to be washed away, forgotten, until the other man comes back to Bludhaven once more.

This time when he tastes salt, he doesn't try to wipe them away.

It's back into a slow, steady state, hanging right on the threshold of consciousness, and he barely hears the door open. Soft steps press against the floor. It has to be Slade. The sky is lightening up outside, moonlight still visible through the blinds of the window, and Dick pushes down his thoughts. Vaguely, he wonders what Slade wants. Maybe more sex -- maybe an order to get the hell out of the apartment. With a sinking feeling, he realises he'll easily obey to either.

Still, he keeps his breaths and heartrate at the same sonorous rhythm, not giving away that he's conscious. Bruce tells him to sleep alert, be ready for any sign of trouble, and he has to bite back a laugh at the irony of lowering his guard in front of one of the most dangerous men on the planet.

Something touches his hair.

It's Slade's hand. Fingers touch it softly, rubbing strands, in a gentle petting motion. Exhaustion sinks into Dick's bones. Something prickles in the back of his throat, but he forces himself to relax, to pretend. The fingers trace his ear, his cheekbone, and slip lower.

To his surprise, Slade's hand draws away from his skin, and instead tugs the blanket up to his neck. He thinks he hears Slade murmur something, in a soft tone he's never ever heard from him, before the warmth of his presence moves away altogether.

The door clicks quietly, slowly, and Dick listens to his own breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Next fic will probably be more mellow.


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